


Lash

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Dark, Gen, No Aftercare, No Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: would you consider writing dean x gordon walker + spanking?/ Gordon gets what he needs from Dean. That doesn't mean either of them like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lash

**Author's Note:**

> This is not happy fic. There isn't any sort of sexual relationship here.

“You think you’re tough, don’tcha,” Dean says softly. There’s a quiet  _tap, tap, tap_  of what Gordon knows is leather against denim. Dean’s belt, his own, maybe something the other hunter got from the trunk. Regardless, the sound captivates him, makes him tighten in anticipation. 

“Big, bad Gordon Walker. Vampire Slayer.” There’s derision in that tone, mocking and it sets the older hunter struggling against his bonds. It’s pointless, though. He’s stretched out too far over the hood of this damn car to get any leverage, practically on tip toe the way his legs are spread. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Dean says chidingly. “You know there’s no getting away. Behave, and maybe I’ll knock a few off your count.” 

“Fuck you,” Gordon growls, feeling the way his own breath creates condensation on the cool metal near his cheek. 

The tapping stops. “Or not.” 

Silence reigns then, not even the crunch of gravel beneath Dean’s boots to alleviate the quiet. 

 _Crack._  

Gordon bites back a shout at the first contact of the belt across his ass. Burning pain makes him jerk in his bonds, and he has to force himself to take a deep breath, then another. Two more solid snaps of the belt land across his cheeks, followed quickly by another two, one on each upper thigh. 

Dean stops then, waiting, and the only sounds in the clearing are Gordon’s ragged breaths. Gordon can hear when Dean steps forward, and he flinches when calloused fingers drag over already-swollen skin. The older hunter swallows a soft sound when Dean’s palm settles over the place where the first three blows had landed. 

“Yeah, you are a tough guy. Know how to take it.”

Gordon can hear Dean’s retreat back to his previous decision. It’s then he sets to work. Blow after blow lands on ass and thigh, until Gordon finally breaks and lets loose a single sharp cry. That’s when it stops, and now Dean’s panting joins Gordon’s own. 

There’s no way to hold in the whimper when Dean’s hands trace over the raised welts and bruising. Gordon struggles weakly as those hands prod and stroke before leaving the damaged skin. His cheeks are wet and Gordon is suddenly grateful for the dark that hides it. 

“No blood.” Dean’s voice is placid, yet somehow too loud in the quiet. He sets to work untying Gordon, freeing his legs first and then his arms. It’s a few moments before his legs will bear his weight, the Impala bearing the brunt of it until the hunter can push himself to standing. 

“Your clothes are beside you.” 

Gingerly, Gordon dresses himself, gritting his teeth at the drag of cheap boxers and harsh denim against his sensitive skin. Clothes back on, he’s more focused, more grounded. 

“That what you were looking for?”

“I owe you,” Gordon says by way of answer, carefully walking back toward his truck. “See you around, Winchester.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dean mutters to himself, watching the truck trundle off into the dark. He leaves the ropes behind when he pulls away in the Impala. 


End file.
